


Welcome to the drizzle

by holesinthesky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airports, Anticipation, First Kiss, M/M, Overthinking, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holesinthesky/pseuds/holesinthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock waits in an airport. It's boring, but it might not be in forty seven minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elephantfootprints](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/gifts).



> My friend elephants is on a very long-hall flight to a drizzly place. I recently spent time being bored in an airport and it seems these facts have converged to make this. Hopefully this will serve as a nice welcome present to a drizzly place.
> 
> Airports are boring, flights are boring. You know what isn't boring? FLUFFY ROMANCE!
> 
> Unbeta'd, this is just what fell out of my head.

Great God airports are boring. Sherlock shifted again in the inadequate seating and sliced a withering glance at another passenger. Middle range businessman, ill-fitting suit, weighing himself down with middle range alcohol because it was marginally cheaper in some fluorescent shrine to consumerism and the wasting of time than it would be in the miserable off license twenty miserable minutes from his miserable home in miserable Peterborough. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut in protest against the onslaught of boring, boring misery. Forty seven more minutes until John’s flight (flight number AC6910 from Dublin, arriving at 15:30) landed. How had he been talked into coming here so horrendously early? He made a mental note that listening to Mrs Hudson’s stories about her nieces was infinitely better than airports.

He tried to distract himself by going over his plan of action one more time. John would round the corner, looking tired and irritable from even a seventy minute flight because conferences tired him out, the dry air on planes even more so. He would walk straight for the tube station, not expecting anyone to meet him and not able to justify the price of a taxi from the west end of nowhere. Sherlock would step into his path and John would look astonished, the delicate lines of his exhausted face softening at the sight of a familiar face. He would smile, his shoulders would drop, and the knot in Sherlock’s chest would loosen, just a little. John’s mouth would open to say something unnecessary; to ask why Sherlock was here, how Sherlock was, something like that. But Sherlock would not give him time to speak, he would take the decisive action. He would gather all the certainty he had gained from two weeks without John at his side, the two weeks of thinking and deducing and deciding, and he would take John in his arms. John would freeze, unsure of what to do, but before long he would drop his bag and put his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock would press his face into the crook of John’s neck and stroke his hand so slowly down John’s back.

After a while he would pull away, take John’s bag, take John’s hand and steer them towards the taxi rank, ignoring any protests. He would lead John into a taxi with a hand on the small of John’s back. He would be warm, rumpled, Sherlock's fingers sliding carefully over vertebrae as he tucked him safely into the seat. John might blush, might try to ask what was happening but Sherlock would only smile and look out of the window. He would still be holding John’s hand.

When the taxi reached Baker Street, Sherlock would pay the fare and they would ascend the stairs. John would drop the bag he had insisted on carrying for the final leg and look at Sherlock, he would be uncertain still. Sherlock would make tea, thinking all the while of that warm skin at the base of John’s spine, of the tickle of greying hair on his temples. His hands might be shaking by then, but he had accounted for that. The cups were already laid out on the sideboard. Whilst the kettle was boiling, Sherlock would turn around to where John was now in the kitchen, still trying to second guess Sherlock’s actions. Sherlock would take a deep breath, he would take John’s face in his hands, and he would kiss him.

It would be a small kiss, he didn’t want to spook John. He hoped that by this point John might not be too surprised, but it always paid to be cautious in one’s plans, especially in matters of such delicacy. John might startle, he might move away, but Sherlock hoped he would come back. His deep blue eyes might light up with realisation, his hand might rise to the back of Sherlock’s neck and he might kiss him back. It might make Sherlock suddenly feel as though he were ten feet above the ground. It might feel like the return of a lost limb, like hot tea after a cold chase, like a long familiar experiment suddenly lighting up with a beautiful new realisation. It might feel like home.

And John’s hand might slip beneath Sherlock’s jacket, might draw that solid arm around Sherlock’s waist, might take a handful of his best shirt. He might sigh into Sherlock’s mouth and they might melt together. They might forget about the tea, they might tumble into Sherlock’s bed and John might not leave. He might not leave ever again.

Sherlock looked up at the airport clock. 15:28.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is flying into London and it is boring, but it might not be when he gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrgghh sorry, there seem to be more chapters! Well, one more. This is what I get for not really planning a thing. It should be soon, though.

John stared at the seatbelt light imploringly. He would have been watching London slowly turning beneath him like a bed of jewels, miniscule and harmless, but he was three seats in from the window and there was a thick layer of clag between his seat and the bright lights of Leicester Square.

His head was pounding and his mouth was so dry he thought he might tear something if he tried to speak. God, flying was miserable. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, thinking of what he was coming home to. He had missed Sherlock, despite kind of hoping he wouldn’t. At least not this much. It had been sneaking in at the edges; what used to be just a familiar face was now a face that it somehow hurt to look at in tiny ways, made his heart flip a little bit sometimes. What used to be Sherlock walking down a street was now a study in lithe elegance and what used to be a commanding or whining voice was now treacle, oozing through warm gaps in his chest and sinking, heavy, through his body.

He thought about how it might be. He would emerge from Baker Street tube with an uncomfortable combination of exhaustion and excitement. He would walk to the flat and climb the stairs. Sherlock would be laid out on the sofa like a collapsed statue, long fingers pressed neatly under his chin. He would crack and eye open and John would meet his gaze, smile and drop his bag. Sherlock’s eye would slide close, maybe he would even smile back, and John would move into the kitchen to make tea.

He’d take his time, savouring the ritual and the anticipation of what was coming. He would put a cup of steaming tea by Sherlock’s head and resist, just for a while, the urge to drag his fingers through the curls splayed out across the leather of the sofa. He would take his own tea back to his chair and look at Sherlock through the steam, his ethereal features blurring and smudging and John would close his eyes. Mrs Hudson would have laid the fire, whilst explaining that it was just this once and she’s not their housekeeper, so he would push his stocking feet into the thick rug and let his legs stretch under the heat.

Later on Sherlock might move from the sofa and curl himself up in his chair by the fire. He might let one leg slide from the leather and press into the hearth alongside John’s. John might let his foot rest against Sherlock’s, might even move against it, catch Sherlock’s eye and smile. Sherlock might look warily back at him as John sinks to his knees in front of Sherlock’s chair, the warmth of the fire licking at his back and bringing beads of sweat up beneath his jumper. He might place a steady hand on Sherlock’s knee and wait as Sherlock unfolds himself, eyes flickering over John’s face as he tries to work out what is happening.

Sherlock might start to open his mouth to ask, and John might place a finger over those lips, and it might be a wrench to move that finger away from such soft lips and onto Sherlock’s neck. He might curve a hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and bring their foreheads together. He might take one humid breath from the space between their mouths, and another. He might look up to where Sherlock’s grey-green eyes were boring into his own and shiver despite the prickling heat at his back. He might curl a finger into the soft, soft hair at Sherlock’s nape and savour the not-quite-there of the moment.

Then he might tip his chin and his lips might touch Sherlock’s and it might start cautious and gentle and Sherlock might sigh like all the crimes had come at once. Sherlock might draw John up into his lap and they might stay there, exchanging little sips of kisses as they got too hot by the fire. They might eventually move into Sherlock’s bedroom and the sheets might be cold, but they might warm them up quickly enough. And he might wake with an armful of Sherlock and everything might be as he hoped.

John stepped off the bus and headed for the arrivals gate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is never quite so smooth, is it?

John walked headlong into a wall of black tweed.

“What are you-?”

“Would you look where you’re- John!”

“Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

Sherlock looked almost dumbstruck for a moment and then seemed to collect himself somewhat.

“I- Err- I came to, ah, I came you meet you.” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh. That’s,” John couldn’t help the smile, “that really nice of you, Sherlock. Miss me, then?” he joked.

John could have sworn he could see the blood leave Sherlock’s face.

“I- Yes, I- Let’s get a cab, John.” he stammered before whirling around and making for the taxi rank so fast John had to almost jog to keep up.

The ride to Baker Street was entirely silent, save for the initial negotiations over destination and route. Just for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, John thought he saw Sherlock’s hand twitch as if to reach for his own. It could have been his imagination, though.

When they made it into the flat, John dropped his bag and turned to Sherlock. He looked… stricken. He was gripping his gloves with bloodless hands and staring at John like he was all of the questions and none of the answers.

“Tea?” asked John, completely at a loss for how to handle Sherlock like this. What on earth had got into him? He didn’t receive an answer, so John just edged into the kitchen to start preparing tea anyway. Maybe Sherlock would speak when he was ready.

There were two cups already laid out on the side, they even had tea bags in them. And the kettle was full. John turned around, ready to find out exactly what was going on here and was met with Sherlock stood right in the door to the kitchen, still staring at him as if he might do something dreadful at any minute.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” he asked.

Sherlock swallowed and cast a desperate glance to the ceiling, muttering “I had a plan, damnit.” and advanced towards John. He stopped just short of him, close enough that John could feel short, nervous breaths against his face. Sherlock took a deep breath and suddenly launched his face towards John so fast that their noses knocked together and John stumbled backwards.

When John had refocused, Sherlock was stood bolt upright, his eyes screwed tight and his knuckles going white on the sideboard. He couldn’t have looked more like a man waiting for the ground to swallow him up if he tried. John finally had his moment of realisation. He stepped back to Sherlock and placed an arm carefully on his hip. Sherlock jumped.

“Hey, hey, you’re ok. I think- I think I know what’s going on. Come here.” John muttered reassuringly as he started to slide his hand carefully around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock remained stiff as a board for a couple of seconds before he seemed to relax all at once and wrapped himself around John’s smaller frame, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck.

“I had a plan, John. It was all meant to be so much better than this.” Sherlock mumbled into John’s jumper. John laughed softly.

“That’s ok. You never can really plan these things. Here, let’s try that again.” John said as he drew Sherlock back and took his face in his hands.

Sherlock kissed with the determination of a man making up for ruined romance. John found himself surrounded on all sides, pressed from knee to shoulder against warm detective, tucked between the lapels of the coat Sherlock hadn’t yet taken off. He felt wrapped up and invaded in the best possible way, Sherlock’s large hands creeping into his hair and under his belt.

Eventually John got a crick in his neck and reluctantly pulled away. Sherlock looked almost as stricken as he had earlier, but this time his eyes were glassy and his lips swollen and red as he stared at John’s mouth. Slowly, very slowly, a smile spread across his face. It was a bit lopsided and entirely unselfconscious, his lips spreading absurdly across his face. He gave one short, breathless laugh and pressed another hard, smacking kiss against John’s lips before bursting into helpless laughter.

Before long John couldn’t help but join him, leaning into Sherlock’s chest, laughing himself breathless. This was ridiculous. And wonderful. John thought back to his idyllic daydream on the plane and laughed all the harder. He took a couple of deep breaths, caught Sherlock’s eye and another laugh spluttered its way out of his chest.

Several minutes later they had both mostly calmed to giggles and regained their balance. Sherlock looked right into John’s eyes and took a deep breath.

“Let me take you to bed.” Sherlock said, his voice like molasses rolling down John’s spine.

“Oh God, yes.” breathed John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that felt like a good ending. But I am open to a smutty sequel if there is demand... any thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> I tumbl at theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com, where I mostly rec writing far better than my own and reblog snarky gifsets.


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